Dependence
by Oedipus Tex
Summary: Dr. J was found alive floating in some wreckage. At death's door, as he awaits the arrival of someone important to him, he reflects on his claw, and finds it more revealing than he ever imagined. A story about people depending on each other. NOT GUSHY!


_AN:_This is the author's disclaimer. The author disclaims Gundam Wing in the name of the author. The author is making no capital gain off of this. Author freely admits Gundam Wing belongs to some other people, and they can have it, because there is no way in the world this author would want the moolah that they get from owning Gundam Wing. ;-P

_WARNING, WARNING: _Highly introspective fic. You have been warned!

**Dependence**

My claw is strong. It has three fingers—or prongs—that come together with such precision and accuracy, that it is capable of the finest detail and of the greatest gentleness and strength: with it, I have taken up feathers, without bending a barb, as easily as I have broken bone and spirit. It is molded out of a metal so smooth it appears liquid, and has been sculpted so perfectly it seems to have been done so by an artist. It is always polished to a high sheen, and without a mark or blemish, it has a surface within which I see myself. Even now, as I die, it flawlessly mirrors the lights of the blinking, bleeping machines that feed me transitory like. I lift it and look at it, open and close the prongs, and admire it, for it is my comfort. It is the only thing on my body that has not been destroyed by blast or by fire.

The nurse appears above me, to check up on my bandages and my vitals. I am lying in bed, in the sick bay of the ship that rescued me from the wreckage. I am immobilized, except for my claw, which I move continuously, but I am sat up enough to be able to see. There are other wounded here too, but they are kept to the other side of the room, and none disturb me, for all fall silent when they come near. With the exception of the nurse, who acts with good cheer and humor, even though the misery around him is enough to drown him. He travels the room, from patient to patient, smiling and jesting, stepping light on his feet, imagining that the groans that issue forth when he draws near are exclamations of physical pain. I cannot abide him.

"Hello, Mr. J," he says. "How are you doing?"

"Doctor J," I spit. The blisters and the burns around my mouth make it difficult for me to speak, and my speech is, therefore, halting and slow. "Is he coming?"

The nurse is tucking the sheets around the bed. "Oh yes. Yes he is. He'll be here soon."

I raise my claw, and mutter, "I molded him with this."

"Are you comfortable?"

"Yes, yes."

"Are you in any pain?"

"Yes, yes."

He adjusts a nozzle at my IV bag, and a warm, soothing easiness floods my body. The pain subsides. The nurse grins stupidly at me. "There, that should be better. I increased the flow some. Hey, ever hear that song that sings about cocaine and morphine? Calls them friends? That song was wrote for you, wasn't it?" The nurse turns his back to me, looking at the respiratory machine, humming the tune.

He aggravates me, and I attempt to dismiss him by waving my mechanical arm at him. He peers at it for a moment, and then quickly tries to hide his expression with a smile, but I still saw it. It was of criticism and disapproval. It is the same one that fleets across the doctor's face whenever she looks at it. They want to cut it off, but I won't let them.

They say that it is defective and mangled, damaged beyond repair. They say that it is a source of constant pain to me, that the connections between it and the nerves have been injured, so that every time I try to move it, it warps them and causes them to continuously tingle. This is what they say, but I can see that it is as strong as it has ever been. The real reason why they want to take it is so that it will not remind me of what I once was. My body is broken and useless, broiled, and by removing the one last thing that is a reflection of my former glory (but my glory still!), they believe that I will die in peace. They are too dimwitted to understand that I can accept death, only as long as I have my claw, for as long as I do, I can remember my success and be content.

The nurse leaves. I keep time by counting the respiration of the artificial lung. He is on this same ship. I am waiting for him. So what is taking him so long?

I remember how eager he has been to please me. Throughout the years, as his body changed, growing from small delicacy to healthy strength, his countenance becoming ever more unbreakable, he never lost the desperate gaze of one wishing to satisfy. No matter how hard he had become, always when he had heard that he had done well, he would look at me with a bright, frantic, euphoric glow. I quickly stomped this life out of his eyes, but always, I could tell, it was lying there, underneath the surface, ready to rise again.

He has a kind heart. It could have made him weak, but made him strong instead. I made it so, by denying to him what his heart would have wanted. This has given me sleepless nights, but now, I will give him his praise. Dying men can afford to be magnanimous.

When he finally comes, he will stand anxiously above my bed, hiding his emotion with his face, but not his eyes, and I will speak to him. I will say, "Heero Yuy, I have heard about what you have done. I am pleased. Live the rest of your life as you see fit, because your mission is over, and you have done well."

The contented glow will return to him, and he will thank me for the opportunity I have given to him, and he will be made complete. I will then die, knowing that of all the things I have achieved in my life, this is my greatest.

So why hasn't he come yet? I begin to suspect that they didn't tell him about me after all, but then the nurse comes in again, glasses shining like two silver dollars over his face. "Excuse me, Mr. J?"

"Doctor J. Doctor. How many times am I to tell you?"

"Yes, of course. I'm sorry." The nurse clears his throat. "Doctor J, he's here."

My heart leaps. "Send him in."

The nurse moves away, and then he walks in. I don't so much see him, but feel him. The nurse pulls the privacy curtain closed around us, and we are left alone. All is silent, expect for the beeping of the heart monitor, and the mechanical wind of machinery. He is silent, because I made him so. I am silent, because I am amazed.

What a transformation has come to him!—since the last time I saw him, and even more so, from when I first sent him to Earth. He is lither, leaner, healthier, standing more erect, moving with an even smoother grace than he has ever before possessed. He has been realized. But it is the look on his face that has changed the most. I cannot describe it: less hard, less desperate, more confident. I cannot explain this. It is too early for that expression.

I tell him to come closer. He stands above me, looking down with this new look in his eyes.

"The other doctors are dead," he tells me, as though making a mission report.

"Only I would be stubborn enough to survive that." I laugh and then cough, tumbling gravel in my throat. "I am glad that I can still see you. I threw my hand and claw in front of my face, shielding my eyes, so that I might see you again."

He looks me in the eye, as I taught him, but his eyes do wander to my prosthetic arm. He has always been horrified of it. To call it my "claw", instead of my "mechanical hand", horrified him still further. Very quickly, I taught him to be terrified of it as well.

"They told me about everything," I say. "I wanted to tell you, before I die, that I am gratified."

He does nothing. I thought that, at least, his eyes would have shimmered with emotion pressing on him, but his eyes do not. They neither flicker nor flit, nor change to show that he is pleased, for having pleased me. He doesn't understand me.

I try again. "I am gratified with us, I mean, for saving the world, and for completing the mission."

Still, nothing!

"Heero, you have done very well. Very, very well. Live the rest of your life—live as you wish, for your mission is complete—knowing that you have my approval."

I await the elation and gratitude to be delivered to his face. I inspect him, and when he finally opens his mouth to respond, I hold my breath.

"Dr. J," he says, "I don't need that from you anymore."

I stare at him. I don't understand him. What does he mean? Of course he needs it! He depends on it!

He begins to turn, and, I fear, it is to leave. I try to catch him with my claw, so that I might make him understand. He stops, and his eyes, sweeping over my arm, land on my claw on last time. I am astounded. All this time, I believed that he had been looking at it with awe and dread, and instead, it has only been with pity!

I raise my claw to look at it again. What tricks death plays on the eyes! Perhaps they were damaged in the explosion after all, because when I look at my claw now, it is destroyed! Defective, mangled, damaged beyond repair! The prongs have been twisted and warped, and fused together, so that it is utterly useless. A black char covers it, so that it no longer shines. It doesn't look strong at all. I cannot believe it. When did this happen?

**AN: **Okay, kinda grim, but still with a happy ending, in a way. (Okay, I admit this story is messed up, but with a guy like Dr. J, it's bound to be, isn't it?)


End file.
